A Little Bit Like Lightning
by alt-ctrl-del
Summary: Modern High School AU. He was a greaser and she was as pink as the blush that seeped through his cheeks whenever she seemed to be around. Oneshot.


The first thing he sees when he unmounts his bike is the short, meek little redhead across the parking lot tucking a strand of her hair behind an ear.

Immediately he knows that she doesn't belong here. The hem of her floral sundress touches her skin just a centimetre above her knees – far too long for any of the airheaded jocks littering the school entrance to spare her a lecherous glance.

Her legs are too skinny and so pale it almost looks like there is a ghost haunting the grounds, but his trance breaks when the summer wind picks up unexpectedly and her hair catches fire under the sun.

She looks so out of place and so lost amidst the crowd of bustling seniors rushing past her with legs oiled and tanned from the holidays and hair so sleek with gel and grease.

A hand clasps him on his left shoulder and he shakes out of his reverie, turning to the perpetrator.

"Hey, Levi, we got a date with some lady skits at the bowling alley tonight, you wanna come? Unleash the beast for a short time, eh? If you get what I mean," a horse-faced junior sniggers beside him as he lights up a cigarette, the smoke suffocating him for a few moments.

He shrugs off the younger boy's grasp on his shoulder brusquely to fish out his own pack and lighter from the leather jacket he had swung over his shoulder.

"Pass," he replies, indolent, just as he takes a long drag and purposefully blows it at Jean's stupid face. The taller underclassman coughs in response, waving a frantic hand in an attempt to dispel the fumes.

"Fuck, man, you're a grumpy ass today. When was the last time you got laid? Geez," Jean continues to sputter incoherently.

Without a word, Levi grabs his helmet and stalks off towards the gates, leaving a dumbfounded Jean in his wake like speeding off in an Arizonan desert, a dust cloud of smoke and ashes trailing behind him. The blazing august sun is hot and searing on his bare arms but he continues to saunter straight ahead with one arm slung over his shoulder and the other holding a fag to his lips.

"Since when did you start going to class?" Jean yells indignantly once he had started to climb the steps to Trost District High School.

 _Since Erwin started letting annoying little shits like you into the group_ , he says inwardly, a displeased frown gracing his sharp features as he tosses the fag down the stairs.

He's just in time to see her in homeroom staring wistfully out of the window, the teacher's eyes trained on him in disbelief.

"It's nice of you to grace us with your presence at last, Mr Ackerman," the teacher scoffs before turning to the class. "Take a seat at the back next to – excuse me, girl near the window? Oi, what's your name?"

The redhead snaps her gaze from outside back to the front of the room and eventually to him. A faint blush paints her cheeks as she answers for her name shyly, her voice as demure and soft as his dead mother's cotton petticoat. He scrutinises her with clandestine amusement masked as mild disinterest, a smirk threatening to curve his lips when his moonlit eyes meet her fiery orbs.

"Oi, Ackerman, did you hear what I said? Take a seat behind Petra Ral, and _don't_ pull any funny business on the new girl, you hear me?"

He drowns the words out when he approaches her. _I hear you._

The bell rings. It's the first day of his third senior year.

* * *

She is a daydreamer through and through, and boys like him are her worst nightmares personified.

Everything he does is so contradictory: the way he moves, the smooth drawl in his tone that sends shivers down her spine... She tries to convince herself that she'd had quite enough of smooth-talkers and smoke-scented leather jackets… but something about him just gets her blood pumping so furiously and adrenaline rushes to her fingertips whenever he makes an offhand remark about the length of her skirt or the absence of butter-like emollients on her lips.

He's so annoyingly _infuriating_. And she wants to hate the pristine way he presents himself to everyone all the time. As if he's some sort of junkie who decided to start a new leaf and everyone should look at how _freaking clean_ he is. She bets he still lets his poor, hardworking mother press the iron on his creaseless shirts every night without saying a single thank you.

But he doesn't do that. He does _none_ of that exasperating attention-seeking trend everyone else seemed to follow. It's like he sees no-one else but her in a crowded room, singling her out with a twilight glint in his bullet-grey eyes.

The thought should make her blush herself silly but _god_ he's so _infuriating_.

Her friends had already started to spread whispers around the canteen. That she's not the pretty white virgin she presents herself to be. That she likes to dabble in dark and murky waters while her father's got his back turned.

She knows he _probably_ gets a kick out of it whenever he's close enough to hear them giggle snidely behind her back, but his face is so emotionless and blank she has to start questioning whether she knows anything at all.

It's like he's dancing around her all the time, pulling all these twists and turns where one moment he's looking at her in the dirtiest way possible and then the next he's helping to pick up her books after some self-absorbed quarterback heedlessly pushes her out on his way to some skank with hair bigger than her brain.

It's these moments when he becomes reserved and nonchalant that she starts to doubt the way she knows him – if he's really some kind of gentleman hiding behind a perverted exterior or just a two-faced jerk trying to get into her pants.

She slips past him after school on her way home. She smells him before she sees him and she knows he's smoking again, lean back pressed against the wall, eyes closed in temporary bliss. She holds her breath as she approaches his form obscured by the shadow of the tunnel they were in, her head screaming _what are you doing?!_ when she initiates the conversation.

"I hate guys who smoke," she says impassively, hugging her books closer to her chest.

His eyes snap open and he fumbles to put away his pack and lighter when he sees her blinking her butterfly lashes at him, amber eyes scorching. He is silent then, letting her breathe him in. Cigarettes and dead ashes.

Her focus catches on to the corner of a page peeking out from his denim pockets. She snatches it swiftly before he could react (and he curses himself for being caught off-guard), her deft alabaster fingers smoothing it out.

Pink lips form an incredulous 'o' as she continues to scan its contents. He thinks she looks so damn adorable.

"Did you forge your report card?" she finally asks and he briskly takes back his stolen dignity. "I mean, I won't tell…it's just – "

"I didn't," he deadpans. She waits for an explanation; he offers none.

"This is your third year being held back, right?" she states more than she inquires. He hesitates to nod. Erwin would be here soon and it wouldn't do him good to be caught speaking to the local pastor's white-clad daughter. Even one as cute as her. "What changed your mind?"

He almost chokes at the question, eyes widening marginally in response. A sleek, ginger brow rises on her forehead. He coughs uncomfortably.

"You wouldn't want to know."

 _Try me_ , she mentally screams. _You're infuriating!_ she wanted to add. Instead:

"Hey, um, Levi?" her voice trembles when she raises a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Hm?" he acknowledges with a grunt, refusing to meet her eyes lest she singes his moth-like wings some more. The sound of drifting tires and vehicle roars is nearby. He has to take his leave soon.

"Do you wanna, um… Could you help me out on the English project we got set today? I mean, if you have time of course," she blurts out, knuckles turning white as the grip on her books intensifies.

Levi has to try so hard to make sure the thunderous thump in his chest didn't burst out spontaneously. Instead, he lifts himself off the wall and flicks the burnt-out fag to the floor where he stood, frozen, a smile dangerously possessing his pursed lips. "Sure," he says with a shrug. "Catch you later, Ral."

After she watches him disappear down the tunnel towards the flock of black bikes and raven-cloaked boys waiting for him, she comes to a startling realization.

She had seen him blush.

* * *

"Fancy seeing _you_ here," Petra chirps, earning a scathing _shh, it' s fucking detention_ from the teacher supervising the near-empty classroom. She quickly finds an empty seat in front of him.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. "What are you doing here, Ral?" he sighs, uncrossing his arms to better position himself on his seat.

She shrugs lightly, her copper hair skimming the bare skin on her neck. He licks his lips instinctively.

"My name is _Petra_ ," she corrects him in mock annoyance, "and…I kind of intentionally forgot to give in my homework to Mr. Shadis and _maybe_ badmouthed him a bit."

He scoffs. "I find that hard to believe."

"Well, you _should_ ," she retorts in whispers. "I'm not Little Miss Perfect all the time."

"I didn't say you were," he muses, craning his head forwards. The movement causes him to grimace and a hand flies up to grip his left shoulder.

Petra frowns, witnessing his silent anguish. "I wish you didn't do what you did," she eventually manages to declare. Her fingers had started to distractedly scratch at his table.

"That's a stupid wish," he grumbles in response, sighing back into comfort. She thinks the only perfect way to describe his voice is to compare it to fresh smoke wafting from the barrel of a shotgun – husky, smouldering, and iron. A little bit like lightning. "And stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" Petra innocently pouts. But she knows what he means. The garish purple that streaked the tip of his left cheekbone is a stark contrast to his pale, snowy skin. It's the only thing she can see when she tries to meet his gaze.

He notices her discomfort immediately and he scowls. "Is that why you're here? You feel guilty I almost beat that obnoxious little shit to death?"

She sucks in a salient breath. "No…" she exhaled. "I just…I wanted to – I don't know. I wanted to thank you, I guess. So, thank you. You didn't have to do that."

He's reticent for the rest of the hour, grey eyes hooded and arms crossed to his chest, guarding himself. She is so completely _unordinary_ , like she wields this kind of rare, modest beauty he isn't able to touch like the others because it catches fire so quickly and before he knows it, he's burning helplessly and rescinding into ashes.

Her smile alone ignites something unfamiliar within him that he just _doesn't_ _fucking_ _know_ how to handle himself whenever he's with her. And the blistering sensation that spreads across his cheeks to the tips of his ears did nothing to help the situation. It only makes him look like a blustering idiot.

When the hour is over and she rises timidly from her seat, he almost regrets not telling her that _this_ was all some lame illusion he hides behind to protect himself. That these washed-out denim jeans and black tees are just a shroud to not let people get too close. That he only smokes to forget how alone he has allowed himself to be.

"Maybe I won't next time," he mutters instead, hoping it isn't too audible to reach her ears.

But to his misfortune, it does. And she glares at him with blazing caramel eyes before making her placid exit, the _swish_ of her yellow dress disappearing in muted echoes down the hallway.

He wants to punch himself on the other side of his face. _What the fuck, Levi?!_ Discontented and wallowing in self-loathing, he reaches for the lighter in his pocket then pauses, a flash of white and autumn gold passes his mind, and he retracts his hand instantly.

 _They're called cancer sticks anyway_ , he tells himself as he finally picks up his things and leaves the room, trying hard not to feel so dejected by some church girl who somehow makes him want to try at all.

* * *

 _Yes_ , he's a grumbling, mumbling tight-lipped ass-hat who thinks she can be so easily wooed with a bunch of flowers and ripped-off poetry.

 _Yes_ , he's a poo-faced jerk who looks like he's perpetually stuck on a toilet with the way he glares at all the boys who dare to slither up to her with one hand placed above her head on her locker and the other snuck deep in their varsity jackets, their slimy _hey, pretty girl_ 's only causing him to deepen his contempt for the general human race.

 _Yes_ , he is a grouchy old midget without a cane stick who is in desperate need of something like – _I don't know_ – a _straw_ so he can suck up all his insecurities and just _ask her out_ to prom (or get a pair of high heels if he's so incapable of growing some balls).

 _I mean – I'm not that scary to ask out_ , she wonders as she steals yet another glance at him from across the library. Recently, she has caught on to the fact that he no longer wears his leather jacket and instead has decided to opt for black flannels and dark sweaters.

And it probably doesn't mean anything significant, but she's also detected the absence of smoke whenever she is close enough to get a whiff of his unusual yet fragrant aftershave. Or even the freshly cut tips of his ebony hair highlighting his undercut even more than before.

She can't remember the last time she'd seen him with his friends either. Though, he still never arrives to school on something other than his motorbike (and on time for that matter).

 _Yes_ , he's probably just being his usual peculiar self.

Petra writes more vigorously on the page. His earphones are plugged in, isolating him from the excited hustle of her senior year classmates. _I mean – maybe he's not the dancing kind of person?_

Her shoulders slump in defeat and she creases her forehead to get herself to focus once more at the task at hand.

 _I mean – he's probably gone to prom too many times already. Maybe he's bored of it. And why would he even ask me? He probably thinks I'm untouchable just because he has to call my father 'Father'._

It's this interminable circle of _Why, why, why?_ 's and _Maybe_ 's that makes her want to grit her teeth and rip her hair out. She can already see the weird looks her tense form is attracting. The pastor's daughter with her fingers gnarled into claws? _Pfft_. _So what_.

Lost in her mad meanderings, she fails to notice the pleasantly occupied stare from across the library. He could hear very well her frustrated mews and muffled groans even from where he's sitting, pencil poised gracefully above his sketchpad.

It's hard to get the curve of her mouth _precisely_ correct, and even harder to pick the right colours to match her eyes (hence the reason he decided to leave out any colour altogether). He thinks she does it just fine anyways – the way her entire face and body flares up whenever their fingers accidentally brush against each other as they're walking to homeroom in the morning; the way she sparks into life when he bluntly disregards her favourite book in class. He gets an earful from her after school when that happens (and he secretly does it all the time just so he can listen to her unconstrained ramblings over and over – just him and her).

 _Yes_ , she's vibrant and cheerful and sprinkles the page with the right shades of autumn without him having to completely ruin it with his shitty Crayola pens.

 _Yes_ , she's everything and nothing he could imagine himself living without – the tinkling laughter at lunchtime that's just about loud enough to take his mind off Erwin's cold gaze drilling icicles into his back, the scent of holy incense masked by some kind of girly cheap cologne.

Not once is he able to stop and think about how much he doesn't deserve a girl like her. Not in a million lifetimes.

She's like a stairway to heaven and she's just about dragged him halfway out from hell.

So,

 _Yes_ , he's going to swallow his fucking pride and ask her to prom the way he _knows_ she wants to be asked. And she better damn well say _yes_ because he doesn't just stake his dignity for anyone. Or his cash.

* * *

"I still think you're infuriating," she murmurs in his ear after she rests her head on his shoulder. "Just thought I should let you know."

"I know," he deadpans, continuing to sway their bodies to the slow-dance music she'd been waiting to come on the speakers ever since they got there.

"And do you also know that you're a dork for punching Erwin in the face when he called me a – what was it? A depraved, heinous tramp?"

Levi sighs, rolling his eyes as he presses her body closer to his. "Bastard had it coming," he growls quietly so only she can hear. "Not my fault he's an English-major dropout."

Petra giggles sleepily in response. The piano solo resonates throughout the gymnasium, the hint of a Southern drawl laces itself with the magical clinks of an unchained melody. She sighs in content against his chest and he is all too happy to just stand, stare, and sway in time with the beating of her heart.

When he'd seen her waltzing down the front porch step to her conventional, white-picket-fenced house he'd known in that moment what the wind looked like: her glossy lips and her pink and white dress that she _must've_ found while rummaging through her mom's old-school wardrobe.

She'd even had the gall to comment that it was the exact same shade of rose that was smeared across his cheeks and kissed the tip of his ears.

Levi nudges her softly when the song ends and another picks up – this time it's a jangly mess of synths and electric guitars conveying a sense of goodbye that he is sure he will never have to say to her. Ever.

"Mm?" she mumbles, cracking open an eyelid to reveal electrifying pools of molten lava. "Is it over?"

He shakes his head. "Got a question."

"Shoot."

"Do you know you're the reason?" he asks simply, still swaying even though the band has gone wild and the tell-tale sign of a mosh pit near the stage is starting to aggravate the teaching staff.

"Reason for what?" Petra replies with eyebrows knitted together in confusion. But she realizes the answer before he says it. " _Oh_. Well. I didn't know."

She smiles when she leans in to press a kiss to his lips. It's short and so sweet that if there had been any other girl in his arms right at this moment, he wouldn't have hesitated to barf on the floor from all the topsy-turvy shit his stomach was doing.

Her incandescent amber eyes are glistening when she opens them again. His lips quirk up in return, a mischievous glint shining through his silver gaze.

"Do you know that I'm in love with this greaser who used to be a creep and stare at me all the time before _I_ had the guts to go up to his face – and he had the audacity to smoke in front of me, that jerk – to ask him out for a lame English project that I totally knew all the answers to – just sayin' – and also got my first ever detention just to say thank you to his ungrateful sorry ass?"

Levi scowls, eyes narrowed. "This guy sounds like a jerk."

Petra slaps him playfully as she pouts, holding back a laugh, her fingers tracing over the non-existent bruise he had taken for her all those months ago. "You _are_ a jerk, sending me cheap flowers and you probably bullied poor Armin to write that poem, didn't you?"

"Like I said, he's a jerk," Levi repeats with a teasing smirk. "But yes, I do know. Way before you did, in fact."

A single strand of hair becomes loose and she moves to tuck it back in until Levi swats her hand away and tucks it in for her in the gentlest way possible.

"Does this mean I get to ride your motorcycle now and again?"

Levi deadpans. "No."

"Jerk."

* * *

 **A/N: Hallelujah, something fluffy for once! I must say, I'm on a rivetra roll. Please leave a review if you can~**


End file.
